


Couples' Therapy for Temporary Amnesiacs

by melthedestroyer



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Injury Recovery, M/M, Margo Hanson's Visible-from-Space Soft Spot for Quentin Coldwater, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melthedestroyer/pseuds/melthedestroyer
Summary: “Quentin…” Eliot mumbles, turning the name over in his mouth as he continues to nibble at the cracker. “Quentin? Is that your name?”Quentin looks down at his hands. Jesus Christ, there’s no need for him to be this broken up about it. None of this is permanent. Margo pours out a second glass of wine.“Uh-huh,” Quentin replies, voice small.“I’m Eliot,” Eliot declares, flashing him a somewhat cockeyed version of his most dazzling smile. “You’re cute.”“Oh my God,” Margo huffs, stomping over to shove a wine glass in Quentin’s hand.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 24
Kudos: 150





	Couples' Therapy for Temporary Amnesiacs

**Author's Note:**

> So, you know that viral video of the guy coming out of surgery and flirting with his wife, who he doesn't recognize because he's loopy from anesthesia? I thought: what if that, but make it Queliot.
> 
> Thank you to grimweather for the beta!
> 
> Warnings for temporary memory loss and the effects of a fantasy drug.
> 
> This is very stupid. Enjoy.

Margo bites her lip, eyes flicking between her phone and her best friend, zonked out on the couch.

It isn’t like she’s his fucking babysitter, but she feels responsible. She and Eliot had a day together—sadly, not to just hang and grab brunch and go shopping, but to deal with some bullshit in Fillory that she’d been having tr—that she needed Eliot for. It was just bad timing, because Eliot came through on edge and, frankly, pissy. It took barely any prodding to discover that he and Quentin were fighting.

And it took maybe five more minutes of explanation for Margo to realize that Eliot was a hundred percent being an idiot. It was one of those snowball arguments that had started with a pleasant discussion of potential honeymoon locations, that then progressed to potentially moving out of the penthouse, that  _ then _ evolved into a disagreement about location and living space and splitting time between Fillory and Earth, which veered to the subject of Julia’s three-month-old baby and Quentin’s duties as godfather, which unfortunately then tumbled into the subject of  _ kids in general _ , and the prospect of having them. 

Quentin was thinking four point five steps ahead, like always. Eliot, meanwhile, was still balking at step one, and clearly self-sabotaging as a result.

And for Christ’s sake, Margo isn’t a fucking marriage counselor. Committed, monogamous relationships give her fucking  _ hives _ . So what if telling Eliot to get his head out of his ass before he was done flipping out was maybe not the best idea. Sue her. 

The two of them were so distracted in their own following argument, they basically walked straight into a Faerie Court ambush. And Eliot got hurt—hit with a hexed fae arrow. 

She got them away, no thanks to literally anyone.

The centaurs cleaned and bandaged Eliot’s arrow wound, and assured her that the hex on those arrows only caused  _ temporary _ memory loss and confusion, incapacitating their foes long enough to either escape the scene or trick the victim into a pact before they came to their senses. 

Mother fuckers.

The best thing for Eliot, they told her, was a familiar environment, familiar faces, and familiar food, and his memory should return soon enough; so Margo hauled his loopy, drugged-up ass back to the penthouse. 

“Where we goin’?” Eliot slurred, stumbling with his uninjured arm slung over her shoulders as she dragged him toward the portal. Whatever the centaurs had given him for the pain would help him sleep through the worst of the hex, but it also hit him like a few too many tequila shots.

“I’m taking you home,” she grumbled through gritted teeth.

“Aw, you’re sweet.” He patted her arm, and she suppressed the urge to snap  _ the fuck I am _ . “I don’ really go for girls but’m...m’open to new experiences,” he said, giving ‘experiences’ about four more syllables than it needed.

Jesus Christ. 

“I am taking you to _your house_ ,” she clarified. “Where you will hopefully _sleep_ _this off_.”

“Oh... Where’s that?”

“Manhattan,” she said, less annoyed now. “The Upper East Side, in an obscenely big penthouse with a bunch of improbably hot people.”

“No shit...How do I afford  _ that _ ?”

Oof. That was  _ not _ one she was going to explain. “You’re just That Bitch, I guess. Hey—watch your fucking step!” she snapped as he nearly rolled his ankle on a tree root and stumbled. “I’m half your size, dickhead, this isn’t fucking easy.”

Eliot giggled. “You’re bossy. I like you.”

Despite herself, Margo softened. He’d said as much when they first met. The more things change, et cetera.

Having portaled to the penthouse and gotten through the wards, she deposited Eliot on the couch, where he promptly passed the fuck out. 

And now she has to call his fiance. 

She rolls her eyes at herself, wondering when on earth she’d become scared of  _ Quentin fucking Coldwater _ of all people, and jabs at his name in her contacts list.

“Hey,” Quentin answers, after enough rings she’d been afraid it’d go to voicemail.

“Okay, so before you freak out, everyone’s fine, but we ran into some Fae and Eliot got hit with a hexed arrow.”

Through the phone, she hears a crunching of static that’s probably Quentin scrambling to get his stuff together. “How am I not supposed to freak out if you lead with  _ that _ ? Is he okay?”

“I  _ told _ you, he’s  _ fine _ . I took him to the centaurs and we’re back at the penthouse. His arm’s bandaged up and he’s sleeping it off.”

“You said it was hexed?” Quentin asks, sounding out of breath now.

“Yeah, some weird faerie tranq where they make you confused and give you,” she winces, bracing herself, “temporary amnesia.”

“TEMPORARY WHAT.”

“ _ He’s fine _ ,” Margo insists, going for a harsh stage whisper to avoid shouting. “The centaurs said it doesn’t even last a day most of the time. They do it to get people to stop attacking them and to brainwash them into servitude. He’s loopy and on pain herbs but  _ he’s gonna be fine _ . Okay?”

She hears Quentin pause, and take a breath. “Okay. Okay, just. Stay there. I’ll be right over.”

“I’m not going anywhere, pumpkin,” she says, softening again despite herself. “Don’t panic. Grab a coffee on your way. Get me one too.”

A huff of staticky laughter. “Okay.”

“Large cold brew with a shot. Loveyou _ bye _ .”

“Love you too,” she hears him grumble as she pulls the phone back to hang up.

When Quentin gets home, he’s less flustered, and actually carrying a drink tray from Starbucks with three cups in it. She gets up to kiss his cheek, pink and cold from New York winter, and grabs the tray so he can unload his messenger bag and coat.

“How is he?” he whispers, tugging off his hat and mussing the living hell out of his pulled-back hair in the process.

“Still passed out. The centaurs gave him herbs for his arm.”

Quentin pushes past her to get a view of the couch, but freezes at the edge of the living room. She catches up in time to see his expression melt into a frown, his eyes casting over Eliot’s prone form. Eliot is sort of clumsily sprawled, because there was only so much Margo could do on that front, but at least he isn’t laying on his injured arm, which is bound up in Fillorian bandages above the elbow.

They are going to owe her so many day spa gift cards.

“Hey,” she whispers, wrapping an arm around Quentin’s waist. “He told me a bit about your little spat. I don’t know what could possibly get his panties in a twist like this except his own neuroses, so like...don’t feel bad if you’re mad at him. Okay? He was being a bitch.”

Quentin bites his lip and hangs his head. “I know, but…”

“But what?” 

“He didn’t tell you what I said, did he?”

“I mean, you said a lot of things. You have this thing where you over plan and think too far ahead, which could spook  _ anyone _ with commitment issues.” She glances up to meet his eyes, for emphasis. “Trust me. He’s just being Eliot about this.”

“No—I. Like, I  _ know _ , I know that part but. Margo, I asked him, like, if he felt that way and was so freaked out about it, why we were even getting married in the first place.”

Margo’s stomach goes cold. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Between that and your whole ‘what school are we sending our future kids to’ spiel… Makes sense he’d freak out, but I mean, it’s kind of a valid question, Q.”

“You’ve  _ met him _ , right?” He leans into her, and rests his forehead on her head. She gives him a little squeeze. “Maybe it was, but I should know better than to come out with something like that  _ while he’s clearly having a crisis _ . His whole  _ brand _ is misinterpreting shit like that.”

Margo sighs. “Maybe, and it certainly...explains a lot, but… Baby, don’t tell me you’ve been beating yourself up about it all day.”

Quentin is quiet for a moment. “I mean, his answer was ‘fuck if I know’, and then he stormed out and left for Fillory to help you out.”

Oh, cool, Margo’s gonna murder him. “ _ Mother fuck _ …” she mumbles through gritted teeth, shutting her eyes to access some calm.

“I mean, he might even be right,” Quentin continues. “Like, we got engaged pretty fast, considering, and if the whole thing is legit freaking him out…”

“Nope. Shut up. No.” Margo lets go of him to spin around, grab her cold brew and Quentin’s latte, and plonks them down on the coffee table. She yanks Quentin by the front of his shirt, and pulls him down to sit on the couch with her, onto the section at a right angle to Eliot’s legs. “Look. I’m not the boss of your relationship, obviously, and I’m not gonna do any work for you two. But when he gets his fucking brain cells back, I will not accept any more sadsacking from  _ either of you  _ until you talk to each other like grownups. Got it?”

Quentin screws his mouth up and takes a sip of his coffee.

“In the meantime, he’s loopy as shit and doesn’t remember anyone. So enjoy not being in a fight with him for the next few hours.” Margo stands, musses his hair, and heads for the kitchen. On her way, she spots the third cup in the drink tray: a small peppermint hot chocolate, with “E” written on the lid in purple sharpie. 

These two. Fuckin’ Christ.

The kitchen doesn’t reveal much she can work with. Eliot’s mere presence had dispensed with a lot of the frozen and microwavable stuff it used to harbor in favor of fresh, unprocessed ingredients, which Eliot would feed the whole house with. Which is annoying, as their personal chef is sort of incapacitated at the moment.

Eliot and Julia living in the same house, though, means they have the good shit. And though Margo may not be much of a cook, she is the fucking snack queen.

She digs out three different types of cheese (brie, gruyere, feta) from the deli drawer, crackers,  _ fuck yes _ pepper jelly and raspberry jam and orange marmalade. Hummus and cucumbers, which means she actually has to slice one, but she’s feeling charitable today. A packet of sliced prosciutto, excellent, a tin of pre-salted mixed nuts, grapes, honey— _ local _ honey, of course, these farmer’s market sons of bitches. 

After her ingredients are amassed on a giant tray, she grabs two knives, a few spoons, and Eliot's hot chocolate, and marches the platter over to the coffee table.

“Eat. You’re bumming me out,” she commands, placing it on the edge closest to Quentin.

“Margo, did you...just make a charcuterie board?”

“If you ask Eliot, no, because that implies  _ presentation _ .” She rolls her eyes, making air quotes with her fingers. “But I like to think  _ I’m _ the presentation.  _ I _ put the cute in charcuterie. That should be enough.”

Quentin snorts. “Did you  _ rehearse _ that line?”

“When you need to continue justifying poor aesthetic choices to Eliot fucking Waugh, you need to be witty about it. So if I say yes, will you goddamn eat the cheese? I slaved over a hot counter for this.”

And there’s the smile. The eye crinkly one that Eliot used to wail to her about when they were still at Brakebills.

“Also, the centaurs say he needs to eat human food so that the faeries’ claim will weaken. So.”

“Okay.”

They eat in companionable silence, and Quentin alternates between checking his phone, sipping his latte, and trying not to stare at Eliot, but it isn’t long before they both hear a stirring from Eliot’s side of the couch.

Quentin jumps up and kneels on the floor next to his head. His hands flutter, unsure where to touch before they settle on his own knee, fingers tangled together. 

“Eliot?”

Eliot groans sleepily in response, and Margo gets up to find the wine. 

“You feeling okay?” Quentin asks softly. “Talk to me.”

“Mmm’okay,” Eliot slurs, voice rough as he returns to consciousness. “Just sleepy. And  _ hungry _ . Got shot with an arrow, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Quentin chuckles, a smile in his voice. “So I heard.”

“I think they fixed it. Is the bossy one still here? I like her.”

There’s a pause, which must be Quentin remembering about the  _ memory loss  _ part of this ordeal. Margo hangs back in the kitchen, watching, clutching a bottle of Cabernet by the neck, and fights the urge to shout that of  _ course  _ she was still here, dumbass. Eliot’s eyes are still closed.

“Yeah, that’s Margo. She’s here.” 

Margo doesn’t bother being affronted that Quentin knows who he meant.

“Can you open your eyes? There’s some crackers here if you’re hungry.”

Eliot’s eyes slowly blink open, and Margo can see even from the kitchen the moment Eliot registers Quentin’s face.

“Are you the doctor?” Eliot asks, squinting, as Quentin helps him sit up a little and places a Club cracker in his hand.

“No. You’re home now. The doctor bandaged you up and you just have to take it easy now, okay?”

Eliot nibbles at the corner of the cracker, continuing to look Quentin over, pensive. Good Christ, he’s transparent.

“Are you one of the hot roommates she was telling me about?”

Quentin sputters. “The  _ what _ ?”

“I said what I said!” Margo calls, locating the wine opener and uncorking the bottle. “Everyone in this bitch won the hotness lottery. I have eyes and a pulse, Quentin.”

“Quentin…” Eliot mumbles, turning the name over in his mouth as he continues to nibble at the cracker. “Quentin? Is that your name?”

Quentin looks down at his hands. Jesus Christ, there’s no need for him to be this broken up about it. None of it’s permanent. Margo pours out a second glass of wine.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin replies, voice small.

“I’m Eliot,” Eliot declares, flashing him a somewhat cockeyed version of his most dazzling smile. “You’re cute.”

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Margo huffs, stomping over to shove a wine glass in Quentin’s hand.

Quentin is beet red, but Margo can just see the little dimple beside his mouth, which means he’s holding in a smile. “You should eat,” he mumbles to his knees. 

“Oh, sorry,” Eliot says, changing tone immediately upon spotting Margo. “Is he your boyfriend? Do you have dibs?”

Quentin proceeds to have a coughing fit, mid-swallow on his wine. “ _ Oh my god _ ,” he sputters, as Margo cackles and pats him on the back.

“What?” Eliot looks confusedly between the two of them.

“El.” Margo gently extricates the wine glass from Quentin’s hand as he recovers himself. “ _ I _ don’t have dibs, sweetness.  _ You _ do.”

Eliot, eyes wide and mouth agape, turns back to Quentin. “Wait…  _ We’re _ together?”

Quentin, recovered, blushes again. “Yup.”

“You’re  _ my  _ boyfriend? Wow…” Eliot sits back, contemplating this. He turns to Margo and stage whispers to her. “ _ Margo!  _ I’ve got a  _ hot boyfriend _ …”

“Fiance,” Quentin mumbles. “Eat your cracker.”

“We’re getting  _ married _ ?” Eliot turns back to Quentin, reaches out clumsily for his left hand, and holds it up to inspect the thin engagement band there. The cracker drops into Quentin’s lap. “Did  _ I _ give you that?”

“Mhm.” Quentin reaches to gently take his left hand, where it’s resting on his stomach, attached to his injured arm. “You’ve got one too, see?”

There’s something in his tone, something shaky, something unsure, that makes Margo want to flip the fucking coffee table over.

“Hooooly shit,” Eliot breathes, blinking at the ring on his own hand. He wiggles the finger, tries to lift his arm, and winces. “Ow.” 

Quentin immediately shifts back to Fluttering Mode. “Hey, does your arm hurt? Margo, did they give you any extra stuff for it?”

“Nope. What they gave him is pretty powerful. He should be mostly healed up by the time it wears off”

“S’okay,” Eliot says, clumsily patting Quentin’s arm with his good hand. “I just forgot. It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

“Okay.” Quentin settles, sitting back on his heels, and finally, fucking finally, holds Eliot’s left hand in his. “You let me know if that changes, okay?” He reaches back to the coffee table, grabs a small cluster of grapes, and hands them to Eliot. “Eat these in the meantime.”

Eliot obeys, plucking a few off and popping them in his mouth. “You’re so nice…” he says, looking down at their hands. He sounds almost shy. “Are you sure I get to marry you?”

“Only if you want to,” Quentin says softly.

Margo grabs her wine. “You have got to be shitting me,” she grumbles, and walks back to the kitchen.

“Well,  _ yeah _ !” Eliot says. Margo reaches the breakfast bar in time to see Eliot paw at Quentin’s face a few times before getting a hold on his chin, thumb smushing his cheek. He squints at Quentin’s face. “You’re  _ so _ pretty. And you’re sweet. And you love me.” He frowns, and drops his hand. “You love me, right? I feel like you do.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, his voice trembling. “I really, really do, El.”

Margo leans against the bar, suppressing the urge to gag.

“Yes! I  _ knew _ it!” Eliot says, grinning triumphantly, actually pumping his fist. “I’m…” he shakes his head, disbelieving, “ _ pshew _ . I am.  _ So _ lucky. I won the  _ jackpot _ .”

Quentin bows his head, and Margo, half expecting to see another embarrassed but pleased grin, sees his face crumple instead. She downs the rest of her wine.

Slowly, Eliot’s smile fades. “Hey…” He reaches out, and his fingers brush over the tuft of Quentin’s hair that never makes it into his little manbun. “Hey, did I make you sad? Don’t be sad…”

“I’m not,” Quentin says, and sniffs.

“No, nonononono, don’t cry!” Eliot pleads, horrified, holding the sides of Quentin’s head and trying to meet his eye. “Margo!” he calls over to the kitchen as Quentin starts sobbing quietly. “What do I do?”

“ _ Hug him  _ or something, doofus! He’s  _ your  _ fiance!” Margo calls back, digging her knuckles into her one human eye.

“Don’t cry, Quentin.” Eliot clumsily pulls Quentin into a one-armed hug, and Quentin goes willingly. 

Eliot tucks Quentin’s head under his chin, and rests his hand on the back of his neck. Margo hates them both for the  _ zap _ that hits her heart at that. Even enchanted and doped out of his gourd, Eliot will always be Eliot.

“Please don’t be sad,” he says, and even though his speech is still slurred and halting, it’s soothing. “I promise I’ll be a good husband. I’ll make you dinner  _ and _ do the dishes, and I’ll—I’ll take care of you, and I’ll love you, okay? Promise.”

“I’m in hell,” Margo decides, as Quentin gives Eliot an illegibly watery response, and rinses out her wine glass. “I’ve died and this is hell.”

Once the boys have hugged it out and Quentin is back to sniffling, Margo swoops back in with the remainder of his wine.

“Drink up, sweetie pie.”

“Ooo, can I have some of that?” Eliot asks, eyeing the wine.

“I do not need you any more inebriated than you already are, thank you,” Margo says. “Have this instead.” She grabs his (now lukewarm) hot chocolate. The hand-off is precarious, but he manages to curl his hand around the small paper cup without any disasters. 

Eliot pouts. “But  _ Bambi _ …”

Margo hides the small thrill at that. She hadn’t told him about that pet name, which meant he must already be regaining some memory.

“Just drink it, you big baby.”

He takes a reluctant sip, and his eyes light up. “Oh, I  _ like _ this.”

God, he would. For all that Eliot crows about having a  _ developed palette _ , he has one hell of a sweet tooth. Out of the corner of her eye, Margo can see Quentin glowing. Aw, sweetie. 

“I’ll bet. Quentin got it just for you.”

Eliot turns his bright eyes to Quentin. “You did?”

Quentin nods and, if anything, blushes harder. She’s never seen someone who could be so pleased and so embarrassed at the same time.

Eliot leans over and gives him a kiss, which lands somewhere around the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “It’s really good. Thank you.”

But before Quentin can do more than grin back, Eliot yawns. 

“Hey,” Quentin says, gently taking the Starbucks cup from Eliot’s hand. “You should probably go back to sleep.”

“Yeah...m’pretty tired…” Eliot scoots back down, curling up on his side. “I got shot in the arm, you know.”

She sees Quentin suppress a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Exactly. So, you need your rest.”

“Mhm…” Eliot closes his eyes. “You should stay with me. It’ll help my arm, maybe.”

“Oh, will it?” Quentin asks, fondly amused. He sits sideways on the couch and tucks a lock of Eliot’s hair behind his ear so tenderly that Margo’s teeth hurt.

“It will,” Eliot insists, voice already softening into sleepiness. “You fix things.”

Oof. Right in the gut with that one.

Quentin clearly felt that one too, his caterpillar brows pulling together and lifting for like,  _ the _ Quentin Coldwater Sad Puppy Face. Even Margo is not immune to that face, all the more because he has no idea he does it.

Eliot blindly paws at Quentin’s knee. “Lay down with me. You’ll fix my arm and...and I’ll fix why you cried.”

“Oh my _fucking_ _god_ ,” Margo whispers, leaning her head against the refrigerator door.

Quentin, for his part, has kicked off his shoes and is trying carefully to insinuate himself into a Little Spoon situation. Eliot wiggles to make room, and folds his long body around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Which it is. Gross.

By the time Margo can stand going back into the living room, Eliot is already snoring. She locks eyes with Quentin, who somehow manages to look both gutted and pleased at once. 

“If you two make me go grey before I’m fifty, you’re footing the bills for my hair appointments," she says, unable to summon any heat to back it up. After planting a kiss on both their temples, she flops into one of the armchairs, legs swung over one arm like a proper bisexual, and pulls out her phone.

“You sticking around?” Quentin asks, voice soft for Eliot’s benefit.

Margo shrugs. “I thought I’d wait to see if I need to drag him back to the centaurs, but I can bounce if you just wanna bang it out with him when he wakes up.”

“No, that’s okay.” He makes dimples at her. “We miss you.”

Margo is suing for emotional damages. “Of course you do, I’m amazing. Now nap your cryfest out, Coldwater. Mama’s got six months of Instagram feed to catch up on.”

Quentin rolls his eyes before closing them. 

The penthouse is quiet for the next hour or so—the kind of quiet Margo isn’t used to anymore. Whitespire is a giant echoey castle, and outdoors Fillory is always filled with nature noises, but this is the quiet she can truly settle into: distant city sounds, and the hum of electricity and central A/C.

She’s wondering, in the quiet, when Instagram turned into a fucking lifestyle magazine, when she hears a soft “Bambi?” coming from the couch.

Eliot’s awake. Quentin, tucked against Eliot's chest, is still out cold, which probably means his little crying spell wasn’t the only thing to tap him out today.

She puts a finger to her lips and points to the bundle of Boy that Eliot’s spooning.

He shifts just a little to look down at Quentin. He frowns, mouth screwing up, and looks back up at Margo. There’s recognition in his eyes, and Margo knows that the enchantment has more or less worn off.

_ I fucked up _ , he mouths at her. It’s not a question.

She offers him a sweeping palm and a sarcastic smile. Ding ding ding, we have a winner!

Eliot sighs and bites his lip.

_ Stop cocking out _ , Margo mouths back, punctuating each word with her hand.  _ Talk. To. Him. About. Your. Shit _ .

He gives her a sad little nod. Ugh.

Margo wonders if she should start charging for this shit.

She points to her arm and raises her eyebrows in a question.

He nods, less sad, in an “it feels okay” sort of way.

She shoos her hand at him and he lays his head back down. 

_ Love you _ , he mouths at her, and closes his eyes.

Sighing, Margo rises from the chair. After eyeing the portal back to Fillory for a moment, she elects to head back to the kitchen to pour herself something stronger than wine.

It’s not like she has anywhere to be.


End file.
